A Treatise on Cooking, Wine, and Whether Jedi are Adequate Kissers
by MsEstora
Summary: Post-Wild Space. Bail cooks for Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan lacks coordination. Slash, rated M.


_Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by George Lucas. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended._

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Originally posted (f-locked) on my LiveJournal! And the title is thanks to **citizenjess**, who also encouraged me to write Bail/Obi-Wan fanfiction. Hope you enjoy! This is set post-_Wild Space_ (by Karen Miller), based on a scene in _Clone Wars Gambit_ (also by Karen Miller). Rated M for slash and explicit sexual situations.

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**A Treatise on Cooking, Fine Wine, and Whether Jedi are Adequate Kissers**

Obi-Wan has far lost count of the various dinners and evenings he has been invited to over the years, but it's been a very long time since he'd received such a… _personal_ request.

It's not that he doesn't trust Bail. He doesn't know how he _couldn't_ trust Bail after what they both went through, what Bail did for him. There's something profound in the way Obi-Wan thinks about the Senator of Alderaan; not the polite pleasantries and held-back fondness he greets Padmé with, but rather a sense of complete and utter ease – comfortable and relaxed. The last thing he'd ever expect to feel around a Senator (_of all people, a politician_) is safe.

So, yes, it's been a while – and it's also been a while since he'd _accepted_ an invitation like that. Obi-Wan chalks his sudden onset of nervousness upon arriving at Bail's apartment up to that he's not going into battle, he's not going to a Senatorial function where he has to carefully word everything he says so that the other guests don't realise they're being insulted – he's going to a friend's home for dinner, and he's a little out of practice.

_Friend_, he thinks, stroking his beard. _Yes, well_. After Zigoola, he thinks Bail might be slightly more than just the average friend, because the only 'friends' he's seen invite each other over for private dinners are Padmé and Anakin. (As if Obi-Wan _doesn't_ know, for Force's sake, Anakin doesn't exactly go out of his way to be subtle…)

Obi-Wan barely knocks on the door before it opens. Bail stands in the doorway, an apron clutched in one hand. "You made it," Bail says, and Obi-Wan wonders if he's imagining the slight breathlessness in his voice. "Come on in."

"Thank you," Obi-Wan replies, shrugging off his robe. "Where should I –?"

"Just on the hooks there," Bail says, gesturing to the wall, and Obi-Wan does as he's directed, and moves to follow Bail into the kitchen. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for inviting me," Obi-Wan says, looking around the apartment and feeling exceptionally awkward. "You have a… lovely place."

Bail laughs. "Small talk, Obi-Wan? I'd have thought we'd be beyond that."

Bail's amusement eases the tension for Obi-Wan a little, and he smiles. "Perhaps," he says, leaning against the bench, "but small talk is a particular talent of mine when it comes to certain crowds – force of habit, if you will."

"You'll be breaking that habit soon enough in my private company," Bail promises, and puts on his apron. "I hope you like spice."

Obi-Wan thinks it best not to bring up a traumatising incident of Anakin's chilli dish from several years prior, because Bail hasn't just invited him over for a meal, he's _cooking_ for him, which means Obi-Wan vastly underestimated the expected intimacy of this evening. "I do," he says appreciatively, eyeing the pots on the stove. Bail lifts the lid of one and the rich smell of maravia fills the room. "I didn't know you could cook."

"I don't often get the chance," Bail says, "but I enjoy it."

"That's all good and well, but is it edible?" Obi-Wan teases, and Bail raises his eyebrows.

"I'll have you begging for more after you've finished your first plate," he promises, pointing the wooden spoon at Obi-Wan's chest. He turns and grabs a spoon, dipping it into one of the saucepans, and passes it to Obi-Wan. "Here."

Obi-Wan obliges, and he has to close his eyes for moment as the tang of spices fills his mouth. He can't stop himself from humming softly, and when he opens his eyes he's greeted by Bail's pleased expression.

"Well, this is a change from the meal packs," Obi-Wan says wryly, and Bail laughs.

He still looks tired, Obi-Wan thinks; exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. Bail's eyes are bright, much more so than they were on Zigoola, but there's a shadow to his gaze, a slight weariness to his shoulders that Obi-Wan doesn't think existed before. He knows he probably isn't too far off as well; though his physical wounds and scars have healed, that planet left its mark on him – the nights when he wakes up at the touch of an invisible cold hand, the whisper of _die, Jedi_ in his ear when he's alone –

"Bail –"

"Obi-Wan –"

The both break off and clear their throats, and Bail speaks again. "How have you been? Truly?"

"I've been told I'm a resilient kind of person; I just keep bouncing back," Obi-Wan says, and he can tell Bail knows there's more to it than that. "You?"

"Oh, you know," Bail says lightly, but Obi-Wan does know. He moves close to Bail and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"I cannot recall if I ever… truly thanked you, Bail."

Bail shakes his head. "It isn't necessary, Obi-Wan. You did as much for me as –"

Obi-Wan doesn't get to hear the rest of that sentence, because when he moves close to Bail his sleeve catches on the handle of the closest saucepan.

A Jedi typically has fast reflexes when it comes to catching falling things, and instinct screams at Obi-Wan to catch the blasted saucepan – but he also knows it's hot and if he touches it he'll burn his hands, so he stupidly makes a grab for the handle while also pushing Bail out the way to gallantly save him from a falling curry dish.

"Watch out –!"

The warning comes a little too late, as Obi-Wan ends up standing there with mince and spice all down the front of his tunic and a half-empty saucepan clutched in one hand.

Bail stares at Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan stares at Bail – then they both start laughing together, and Obi-Wan puts the saucepan back on the stove and looks down at his ruined clothes. "Oh dear," he says, trying to look contrite but failing terribly. "Bail, I'm so sorry –"

"You are a menace to society," Bail chuckles, and Obi-Wan strokes his beard to hide his embarrassed amusement.

"That can hardly be classified as _my_ fault, Senator Organa."

Bail shakes his head, still softly laughing. "Not to worry, we only lost _half_ a dish."

Obi-Wan steps forward with the intention of helping to clean up. "Would you like me to –?"

Bail's hands are suddenly on him, warm and strong and turning him and pushing him playfully out of the kitchen. "I actually think your particular skills, Master Jedi, would be better suited to setting the table, don't you?" he laughs, and Obi-Wan allows himself to be ushered out. "And go ahead and grab a shirt from my room. Third door on the right."

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Bail's clothes turn out to be a decent fit for him. Obi-Wan selects a plain blue shirt hanging in Bail's closet, pausing before the mirror for a few moments longer than Jedi modesty would find appropriate to check that he's looking, well, _acceptable_. It's not that he's a vain man – if he were, Anakin frequently teases, he'd bother to shave – but he wants to make _some_ effort for Bail. The crisp, fresh-ironed fabric smells faintly of the Senator's cologne, a subtle wood scent that reminds Obi-Wan of the pine trees in the Alderaanian forests.

He returns and sets the table while Bail cleans up the mess Obi-Wan accidentally made – although in all fairness, the handle of the saucepan really _shouldn't_ have been so close to the edge – and he waits a respectable distance from the Senator tossing the cleaning rag into the sink to avoid any further mishaps.

"Ah, there you are, I'm about to serve up," Bail says when he turns around and spots Obi-Wan. He nods at the shirt. "The colour suits you. You should keep that one."

"Bail, I couldn't possibly –"

Bail waves a hand. "It's fine, I must have hundreds of those. Consider it a gift. Now go sit down, I'll bring the food out."

Obi-Wan gets the distinct feeling he's been permanently banned from Bail Organa's kitchen, so he obeys and returns to the dinner table to wait for Bail, who steps out of the kitchen a moment later holding two plates (with a modest amount of food on each) and sets them down on the table.

"Don't start yet," Bail warns, disappearing back into the kitchen for a few seconds before remerging with a bottle of wine and two wineglasses.

"Oh, of course," Obi-Wan laughs, and Bail sets the glasses down.

"Alderaanian, ten years old," he says, showing off the label.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows appreciatively. It's not that he often indulges in wine – but he knows a good make when he sees one and has the palate for it. "You have expensive tastes, Senator."

"Oh, are you going to lie and pretend that you don't, Master Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan just sits back and crosses his legs, a grin twitching his lips, and Bail laughs and pops the cork and pours them both a glass of wine.

* * *

They don't talk about Zigoola, because they don't need to – they talk about the idiots in the Senate and the various virtues and vices of politicians, and philosophise about the Jedi Order (all in good nature) and joke about Padmé and Anakin, and in between it all Bail keeps topping up Obi-Wan's glass so he can't count how much he's actually had to drink.

When they've finished eating – Bail _is_ a good cook, Obi-Wan regrets being (partially) responsible for knocking half of the food out of the saucepan earlier – they move to the couch, and somehow Bail has materialised a second bottle. Obi-Wan falls into the couch a little less elegantly than he'd been aiming for, but that he blames on the dim lighting that, in combination with the fine red, makes his head spin just a little. Bail sits next to him, putting his hand on Obi-Wan's knee to support himself as he does so.

"Well, there's still a bottle left. We shouldn't let it go to waste." Bail quirks an eyebrow at Obi-Wan. "Are you up for more?"

"Usually, I wouldn't be," Obi-Wan says, "but there's an exception for fine bottles such as that one and present company, don't you think?"

Bail barks another laugh – a sound Obi-Wan is becoming too fond of, he thinks, because he smiles – and reaches for their glasses and pours them both a generous amount again.

Obi-Wan was never as good as Qui-Gon when it came to holding alcohol. Qui-Gon had been capable of putting away seven or eight glasses and perhaps only became a little sleepy; Obi-Wan can handle three or four and becomes… loose. That, and his drinks have a curious tendency to be drugged more often than not, but he's fairly certain Bail hasn't drugged his wine which means the slight buzz to his thoughts and the way his eyes linger too long on Bail's hands and chest are all his own reactions.

(He supposes there are worse reactions to have; Anakin, for instance, has a tendency to cry and declare his love for anything that moves, only to promptly throw up on said moving object/person immediately afterwards.)

Obi-Wan isn't sure when they both stopped talking, or what they'd even been talking about. The bottle was finished a good hour ago and Obi-Wan has no idea what time it is anymore, and their glasses are empty and set aside safely on the coffee table. What he is aware of it is his proximity to Bail on the couch, the way their legs keep brushing against each other, the weight of Bail's hand on the small of his back and the slight movement of his fingers there against the fabric of the shirt.

"Bail," Obi-Wan says – voice unexpected husky, even to himself – and Bail closes the distance between them. Bail's mouth tastes of the red wine they'd shared only moments ago, unexpectedly insistent and demanding. For a second Obi-Wan guiltily wonders if he should have shaved – people have complained about his beard before – but Bail doesn't seem to mind, because his hand slips around the back of Obi-Wan's neck to tug him closer. As a general rule, Obi-Wan responds in kind to the person kissing him because it's the polite thing to do, but he isn't thinking about being polite when he can't help moaning as Bail slowly makes love to his mouth.

"Bail," Obi-Wan murmurs again as the Senator presses his lips to the curve of his neck and trailing his fingers over the buttons of the shirt he's wearing. "Bail –"

"Shh," Bail whispers, slipping the first button undone. His lips follow it, pressing against Obi-Wan's chest. There are a lot of things Obi-Wan seems to be unable to help doing this evening, because his breath catches sharply in his throat when the warmth of Bail's lips on his skin spreads through his body, settling in his stomach and groin, and he certainly can't help _that_. Bail's hands work on the other buttons now, steadily undoing them with slightly trembling hands, and his lips follow them down as well until his tongue tastes the skin below Obi-Wan's navel.

Obi-Wan lets his head fall back against the couch and hears himself groan again, and he feels Bail's lips smile against his skin. He tends to think of himself as a considerate lover, overall, but Bail seems to be doing all the work here. He lowers his hands to Bail's shoulders but there's not a lot he can do except rub Bail's neck and shoulders encouragingly and continue to gasp incoherently.

He's aching for Bail already, the wine having loosened him up and lowered his usually steadfast control. Obi-Wan has to grasp Bail's hands fumbling on his belt buckle, because if he doesn't stop him then he'll come undone far too quickly and he's not quite ready for that yet. "Obi-Wan?" Bail asks, confused, and Obi-Wan tugs him back up his body to kiss him again.

It occurs to Obi-Wan that this would be better done in a bedroom, on a more comfortable platform. Bail clearly doesn't think the same or seem to care – and when he pushes Obi-Wan back against the couch and leans over him, aligning their hips so his hardness rubs Obi-Wan's answering arousal through layers of clothes, Obi-Wan stops caring as well.

Bail's hands fumble for his belt again, and this time Obi-Wan lets him take it off because he's doing the same to Bail and having a very difficult time of it because he just can't find the damn buckle. Bail laughs against his mouth, a heady sensation that makes Obi-Wan grunt and thrust his hips up against Bail's, and Bail releases a groan of his own before pulling back to take care of his own pants.

"For a Jedi Master, your coordination isn't all that good," Bail murmurs, and slips his hand down into his pants to touch the erection tenting the fabric.

Obi-Wan has to force his gaze back up to Bail's eyes. Mouth dry, he replies, "For someone who is supposed to be in the middle of having his way with me, your –"

Bail's mouth is in the way again, warm with the taste of red wine.

It's inelegant and desperate and messy, filled with grunts and moans and rocking hips and clothes only half taken off, pants caught around ankles and knees. Obi-Wan's shirt – Bail's shirt – is tossed to the side as Bail reaches between their rocking bodies to grasp them both as their lengths slide together. Bail comes first, body shaking as his release takes him, pounding in the Force in time with the hammering beat of Obi-Wan's heart in his chest. The sensation of Bail's orgasm washes through Obi-Wan as well and he feels his own imminent release tighten in his balls and ache in his groin – one, two more thrusts, and he groans with Bail as he comes hard between their bodies.

Bail's hand tightens at the back of his neck as he collapses onto Obi-Wan's sweaty, sticky chest. Obi-Wan's hands come up to Bail's shoulders again, rubbing him tiredly as sated exhaustion hits them both. Bail's hand lingers on Obi-Wan's hip, thumb making small movements on his flushed skin.

"Mmm," Bail mumbles, eyes closed, "that was… that was…"

Obi-Wan chuckles tiredly. "Yes?"

"…mmph."

"You know, small talk isn't my only talent, Bail – I'm not half bad at pillow talk."

Bail snorts against his chest and tells him to shut up.

Obi-Wan obliges, and enjoys the moment.


End file.
